


Conquer Even Death

by AoifeMoran



Series: An Abundance of Slytherins [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Harry/Narcissa friendship - Freeform, Narcissa-centric, POV Female Character, Prompt Fill, Tumblr Prompt, friendship fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-22
Updated: 2014-03-22
Packaged: 2018-01-16 15:45:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1352923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AoifeMoran/pseuds/AoifeMoran
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"In the end, Voldemort's fate twice came down to the choice of a woman, a mother."</p><p>An examination of why, exactly, Narcissa Malfoy might have made the choice she did.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Conquer Even Death

**Author's Note:**

> The initial quote, and the prompt itself, is taken from a tumblr post ([x](http://inexorablyacademic.tumblr.com/post/62671440761/sodomymcscurvylegs-cameralinz-is-draco)).
> 
> This piece plays fast and loose with canon, and dates, and generally loads of things.
> 
> Enjoy.

She's never thought much of blood until she marries Lucius. Theirs is a union of two proud and ancient pureblood lineages, and it is not an unhappy marriage. Not at first, that is, until Narcissa fails and fails again to conceive a child, and Lucius’s anger at her grows. He never lays a hand on her, but his silence is far more than sufficient enough to convey his displeasure, his certainty that she is somehow “defective,” incapable of bearing him the Malfoy heir he demands.

She envies Molly Prewett, who married the pathetic Weasley boy, lives in abject poverty now and has five sons to coddle, while Narcissa, living like a queen, doesn't have a single child. She is desperate for one, too, and when she learns that finally, she is pregnant with a son, Narcissa is so pleased she forbids the house elves to punish themselves for an entire week.

Draco is born, and as his toddlerhood passes, all Narcissa wants is for him to have a sibling to play with, so he might stop looking only to Lucius for approval and companionship. No matter how she tries, though, she cannot conceive again. It does not, it seems, occur to the young child that his mother, who loves him dearly, might give him all the attention he wishes for, and more. Narcissa withdraws from her son, to avoid the pain of seeing him look to his father for affection and be spurned yet another time.

She finds other pursuits to occupy her time. It is a little-known fact in the wizarding world that Narcissa spends hours each day reading to the children in St. Mungo's pediatric ward. It is even less well-known that certain large, anonymous donations to both muggle and magical orphanages came from Narcissa's dowry. Lucius might believe wholeheartedly in Voldemort's pureblood doctrine, but Narcissa looks at the Weasleys, who have certain irregularities in their bloodline and yet are rich in magical children, if not money. Narcissa looks at Andromeda, who married a muggleborn, and bore a Metamorphagus daughter. A half-blood, and born with a rare magical talent!

"Blood will tell," her mother had always said, but all Narcissa sees is the wives in her circle of friends struggling to carry one child to term, while the women her husband terms "mudblood rabble and blood traitors" have far fewer difficulties, and more powerful children. She wonders if pure blood is really as important as everyone around her seems to think it is. Narcissa Malfoy would never dare say it aloud and defy her husband and his lord, but Narcissa _Black_ would have, she thinks bitterly. She says nothing, though, and continues to maintain the facade of arrogance and disdain expected of her by her family, though it is only a charade now.

\-----

In the end, it is her love for children - her own, and others', those already born and fighting, and those who might not even live to be born, should Voldemort have his way - that stays her hand and convinces her to lie to her husband's lord in that forest. In the days afterward, Lucius is sentenced to be Kissed, and Narcissa finds she cannot find it in herself to grieve. They were married for years, but there had been a distance between them which had grown into an abyss after Draco's birth, and more still after Voldemort’s return.

She escapes Azkaban and ignominy thanks to Veritaserum, and Harry's testimony on her behalf, and finds herself awarded, surprisingly, an Order of Merlin Third Class, which she refuses to accept. "A mother needs no reward for protecting a child," she tells the Minister privately. Of course, in the winding halls of the Ministry, nothing is sacred, and privacy least of all, so her words are printed across the front page of the _Prophet_ the following morning, and the house elves cannot cope with the sheer volume of owls coming by. Though the Manor has several times been flooded by owls, this is the first time in memory that not a single one carries a Howler. The ones from her “friends” congratulate her on outmaneuvering the gullible masses; she burns these and severs all ties with the authors. The letters from strangers swear they’d always known the Malfoys couldn’t all be that terrible. _“There’s always a black sheep, always one child who goes straight in a family of crooks,”_ one had read, and Narcissa smiles sadly and thinks of Andromeda, resolving to write to her and try to make amends. She thinks of her two dead cousins, Sirius and Regulus, both only recently exonerated posthumously, through the efforts of Harry Potter.

It is his letter that surprises her most. It begins with an apology for the letter’s contents, and that baffles Narcissa, at first, but as she reads on, she understands why Harry might have felt the need to apologize preemptively. _“This is the second time in my life that a mother’s love for children has directly saved my life,”_ the letter reads, _“and though you might find it distasteful to be compared to a muggleborn witch, I would like you to know that I hold you in the highest esteem, as I do my mother. Eternally grateful, I remain, Harry Potter.”_ The words seem too formal and measured for the impulsive young man she has met all of two times, and she suspects Hermione Granger’s intervention, but she heads to her desk to compose a reply all the same.

 _“Mister Potter,”_ she writes, deciding that his letter allows her to reply with a certain degree of familiarity, _“If I feel that a comparison to your mother is inaccurate, and improper, it is not out of any adherence to an old doctrine of blood purity which would not stand up to rigorous examination. It is because your mother had the courage of her convictions, while I allowed myself to stand passively by and act as I was expected to until the very last. You have no need to apologize to me; I am honoured by the comparison, and your esteem. In truth, I am the one who needs to apologize. I should have acted far sooner than I had. These days, I can do far less than what once I might have, but I would like to remedy my inaction as best I can. The Potters and the Malfoys have never maintained the closest of ties, but a Potter and a Black were the best of friends but a generation ago. If you would allow it, I would be more than honoured to count you among my friends. In respect and friendship, Narcissa Black.”_

His reply comes swiftly. No apology was ever needed, it assures her, but the offer of friendship is accepted wholeheartedly. The postscript asks, almost shyly, if she has any childhood stories of her cousin Sirius she might share. She writes him a lengthy account of how her cousin had first made James Potter’s acquaintance at a Ministry ball. She had only been there herself because she had always been Sirius’ dancing partner when they took lessons, despite being four years his elder, and already at Hogwarts, while he was only 7. To this day, she doesn’t entirely know just how Sirius and James Potter had managed to modify the punch so it changed people’s hair colours, but seeing her uncle, the family’s patriarch, chasing two children while sporting bright pink hair is an image she will never forget. After that, the owls fly often and swiftly between Narcissa and Harry, and though it is the oddest friendship she has ever had, it is also the most interesting.

\-----

Opening the _Prophet_ one morning, Narcissa sees a spread of photos taken at the Holyhead Harpies’ annual charity dinner. Harry is wearing a set of dress robes that are clearly several years old, evident not only in the outmoded style but also because they are showing an inch or two of Harry’s threadbare socks. Well. This simply will not do. Lighting the fireplace in her room with a quick spell, she throws a handful of Floo powder onto the flames, calls out the name of the Black family’s London home, and puts her head through the flames. “Harold James Potter!” Narcissa calls, unconsciously using the tone of a mother who is utterly shocked by her child’s behaviour. Harry appears before the flames in an instant, his hair a wild mess, and an expression of mingled shock and surprise on his face. “It’s just Harry,” he begins, but Narcissa interrupts him. Remedying sartorial disasters is more important than good manners, after all.

“What on Merlin’s good earth is this?” She passes the _Prophet_ through the flames, open to the page with Harry’s disastrous robes. “You have the money to afford better robes, to say nothing of the socks, Harry,” she scolds gently, an amused smile on her face as Harry begins to realise that she is only fire-calling to express her outrage at his wardrobe. This begins a new chapter in their friendship: that very day, Narcissa surveys his wardrobe, tutting loudly the entire time, and proceeds to take Harry to Diagon Alley and advise him as to just what a wizard of his calibre ought to be wearing. When, weeks later, the _Prophet_ asks Harry about the cause behind his sudden transition from least to most fashionable celebrity, he tells them that Narcissa Black-Malfoy is his personal style advisor.

For the second time in recent memory, the Manor is flooded with owls, and for the second time in history, none of them are Howlers. There are fewer this time, and all from the well-to-do, or wizarding celebrities from around the world, requesting she use her impeccable taste to assist them. It is not the done thing for a woman of her status to be gainfully employed, but it is nice, Narcissa decides, to have something to occupy her time. She becomes a fashion consultant, for the select few she chooses to assist. Only occasionally does she complain, jokingly, to Harry about how he’s taken her away from a life of leisure and made her a working woman.

He asks her one day, as they are meeting for tea in a muggle cafe away from the _Prophet_ ’s prying ears, if her sense of style extends to interior design. She raises a perfectly manicured brow, and asks, “My dear, haven’t you seen the Manor?” It momentarily slips her mind that he and his friends had been incarcerated there, albeit briefly, during the War. She hides a wince at her tactlessness, but Harry has, somehow, learned to be diplomatic and polite, so all he says is, “Not under circumstances which would allow me to appreciate the architecture, unfortunately.”

“Well, that is easily remedied,” Narcissa announces, and promptly invites him to Sunday brunch. “But why did you ask about interior design? Have you purchased a new home? Or do you intend to restore Grimmauld Place to its former glory?” Unfortunately, as her aunt’s health had declined, so did her wits, leading to several attempts at redecoration that left the old house looking revolting.

“It had glory?” Harry asks, joking, and Narcissa shakes her head at his childish humour. “Oh, Harry,” she tuts, as his wristwatch buzzes - an alarm spell, reminding him he is about to be late for a meeting at the Auror office, about his potentially becoming an Auror. He swears loudly, apologizes for swearing, apologizes for having to leave, and places several muggle bills onto the table before leaving. Narcissa smiles fondly and stays a few more minutes, nursing her tea.

“Your son is awfully sweet, taking time out of his day to take tea with his mum,” the young waitress remarks when she comes to pick up Harry’s abandoned mug, and his half-eaten scone. About to tell the girl that Harry isn’t, in fact, her son, Narcissa thinks better of it. He has, after all, insinuated himself into her heart just as deeply as Draco, away studying in the Americas.

She had written to him, once, about her friendship with Harry. She received in response a curt note about how Draco did not wish to hear any news of “wondrous Potter with his scar and his bloody broomstick.” After that, Narcissa had avoided writing to Draco about Harry. She writes instead about her consulting business, the charity work at St. Mungo’s that she has continued, but avoids the slightest mention of Harry.

In return, Draco tells her about his studies, his attempts to modify Wolfsbane and create a cure for Lycanthropy. _“I have always feared werewolves, mother, as you know,”_ he writes in that letter. _“And I thought father had the right of it, when he said that the best way to conquer a fear was to vanquish the source of it. But he thought to destroy the lycanthropes, and not the source of the fear itself, the lycanthropy curse that turns ordinary men into werewolves.”_ Narcissa keeps all of Draco’s letters, of course, but this one she frames, for it is this that shows, more than anything, that her son has grown up into a better man than his father had ever been.

\-----

Narcissa learns just _how_ much Draco has grown up when he returns for a visit to the Manor one Sunday, as she and Harry are bent over the latest plans for Grimmauld Place’s interior and the remains of their brunch. Draco is icily polite to Harry, only throwing resentful glances when he thinks Harry isn’t watching, but he doesn’t make any disparaging comments, or any allusions to their schoolboy feud. Narcissa is amused to note the faint pink tinge to Harry’s cheeks, and the tips of Draco’s ears. Clearly, she thinks, hatred is not the only strong emotion involved here, but she will have to tread carefully.

Harry had introduced her to Ginny Weasley, his girlfriend, some time ago, and they had even attended several of the same events together. Memorably, one night, the three of them had shared dinner in a trendy new restaurant which had opened after the War. Something had seemed off about the pair’s dynamic, but she hadn’t been able to place it then. Now, she thinks she knows, but Narcissa will need confirmation before she acts.

She invites Ginny for tea, one afternoon, telling her, “I worry about Harry as if he were my own son. I’d like to better get to know the young woman he so clearly loves.” Ginny is skeptical, but Narcissa acts as though she doesn’t notice, inviting her to come again the following week. The teas become more regular, and once she assures Molly Weasley that she isn’t trying to lure her daughter away with fancy French pastries, Ginny begins to confide her worries in her.

“Harry’s brilliant, really,” she sighs one day, glancing quickly at her left hand, unadorned by any ring, “but I wish he weren’t incapable of taking a hint. And it’s not just this, you know?” She jerks her head toward the hand. “It’s, well, everything. I mean, he’s incredibly sweet, but it’s like he’s never really understood how to take care of a girl. He described his first kiss as “wet,” did you know? And he’s always so reluctant to initiate anything intimate, which was brilliant at first, that he’d let me take charge, but I really wish he’d put some effort into it sometimes. And I wouldn’t tell him to his face, but I wonder if maybe he’s just not…” She flushes, and refuses to say another word on the matter, but as far as Narcissa is concerned, that is enough of an answer.

But Ginny is a lovely young woman, even if she is impulsive and some might say her family’s lineage isn’t that outstanding, and Narcissa is loath to leave the poor dear on her own with a broken heart. She invites Molly Weasley to tea the following day, explaining that she cares for Harry as if he were her own, but she is also fond of Ginny, since she is, however distantly, her own niece as well. She tells Molly about her suspicions, and is relieved when Molly doesn’t laugh her concerns away, but instead nods understandingly.

Narcissa proposes that they find someone who would recognize Ginny’s worth in all the ways Harry doesn’t seem to be able to, telling Molly, “But of course, I wouldn’t dream of matching her up with someone against your wishes, and really, I do think you know her tastes far better than I might.” Gryffindor that she is, Molly balks initially at the manipulation required, but her romantic sensibilities win over that aversion, and they begin to compose a list of qualities a potential suitor must have.

“You know, I never expected to take tea at Malfoy Manor, least of all on a regular basis,” Molly remarks one day, as Narcissa is taking a small bite out of a tea sandwich. “And I never thought that I would be searching for a proper match for a well-reared young lady,” Narcissa answers after a moment, thinking sadly of the years spent longing for a second child, “but your Ginny has helped me to realise that dream.” Molly gapes for a moment, before gently patting her hand, the friendly touch startling Narcissa. They return to the discussion of whether or not the list of potential matches ought to include wealthy children of purebloods. Molly is adamant that this young man know the value of work; Narcissa counters, arguing that familial wealth does not preclude being employed. They compromise on limiting that category to the second sons of moderately wealthy families.

Their planning becomes unnecessary when Draco returns, disgustingly drunk, from a celebration of Pansy Parkinson’s birthday, mid-morning, just as Ginny is arriving for her weekly tea with Narcissa. Blaise Zabini, one of Draco’s yearmates, and one of two other male Slytherins avoiding incarceration after the war, is kind enough to escort Draco home. He quite literally runs into Ginny in front of the large fireplace reserved for the Manor’s Floo arrivals. Narcissa, waiting to greet Ginny, witnesses the interaction, and smiles.

Ginny is clearly intrigued by the handsome stranger; Blaise, an avid Quidditch fan, is more than aware of whom he has just bumped into, and apologizes profusely. Narcissa does not know him too well, but she thinks that the way he shakes his head as Ginny passes, lowering his head with a rueful smile, is his own way of telling himself, “Blaise, this girl is not for you.” Narcissa will just have to prove him wrong.

\-----

Between her consulting, her charity work, teas with Ginny and Molly, and brunches with Harry, Narcissa finds herself busier than ever, and before she even realises, it is her own birthday. She is taken by surprise when Harry arrives at their weekly brunch with a package wrapped in a dark blue paper patterned with silver stars, and presents it to her. More surprising still is the admission that he picked the present - a bottle of beautifully scented perfume - with Draco’s help. She hadn’t even known the two were speaking to each other. Well, it’s a step in the right direction, then, she thinks, pleased.

Draco’s own present to her is a silver and turquoise bracelet, enchanted in the manner of the First Nations to protect the wearer from poisons and cursed objects. It is absolutely exquisite, and Narcissa writes to her favourite dressmaker, describing the sort of dress she would like to commission to wear with the bracelet.

She hadn’t expected any present from Ginny, but a tiny, excited owl flies in after Harry leaves, bearing a letter larger than the owl itself. In it, Ginny apologises, writing that she won’t be able to come to tea the following week, but wishes Narcissa the happiest of birthdays. Knowing Narcissa is not averse to seeing a Quidditch match or two, Ginny’s birthday present is a season’s worth of tickets for Narcissa and two guests. Knowing that Harry already has his own tickets, Narcissa wonders if Ginny had anyone in particular in mind when she decided to send a third ticket. Hoping her intuition is correct, Narcissa decides to invite Blaise and Draco to the first match she attends; Ginny seems quite appreciative of this decision, if the lingering glance she throws Blaise is any indication.

That night, Harry shows up at the Manor at an ungodly hour, barefoot and wearing only his pyjamas. “Gin and I had a huge fight,” he tells Narcissa, distraught but also awe-struck. “She kicked me out of my own house.” Draco would never allow it, but when she reaches out to embrace Harry, offering him a comforting hug, he draws in closer and tries not to sob against her shoulder. She conjures Harry a pair of slippers and leads him down to the kitchen, where she asks the house elves to brew them tea.

“Can you tell me what happened?” Narcissa asks gently, wondering about Harry’s relatively calm reaction to the fight. She had heard about the fights he and Draco had had in school; in the aftermath, as retold by Draco, Harry had always stormed off, angry and seething. The parallel isn’t exact, here, of course, but it seems to her that Harry isn’t upset so much as he is resigned.

“We fought,” Harry says bluntly, and she fights not to laugh at his straightforward, utterly _Gryffindor_ response. Before she can prompt him to keep speaking, though, he continues. “It was about… Well, it started after the match, but it wasn’t really about that. It… She was annoyed, I guess, that we’ve been together for two years, now, and I haven’t picked up on any of her hints, apparently. I don’t even know what hints she’s talking about! And then she said...” Harry shakes his head and takes a sip of his tea instead of continuing. He scalds his tongue and grimaces, then softly concludes, “She said she thinks I’m not interested in her, or women at all.”

Because she is nothing if not pragmatic, Narcissa looks Harry in the eyes and asks, “Well? Aren’t you?” Harry says nothing, refusing to hold her gaze, even though he knows that her Legilimency is terrible. “I know you grew up in the muggle world, Harry,” she begins, choosing her words carefully, “and in that world, people are not so accepting of… differences. In the wizarding world, my dear, while we have had our share of prejudices, there has never been one against those who love the same gender.” Narcissa stands from the table, letting Harry mull her words over. “When you’re ready, Lommy will lead you to your guest room. Sleep well, Harry,” she adds, briefly pressing a kiss to his forehead.

In the corner of her eye, she catches a flash of blonde hair disappearing around the corner just as she leaves the kitchen. “Draco?” Narcissa calls softly, not expecting a response, but as she rounds the corner, she sees her son, standing there with an expression of betrayal on his face.

“You kissed _him_ on the forehead?” Draco accuses, sounding like a petulant eight-year old, and not like the man in his twenties that he is. His voice cracks mid-sentence, and he bites his lower lip, trying to fight back tears. She does not know when he developed that habit, but its origins are painfully obvious. Narcissa has seen it many times, and always in her own mirror.

“Oh, my son,” she sighs, heart aching, and then for the second time that night, her arms are full of crying young man. “There is room enough in my heart for two sons, and more,” she tells him, stroking the hair he has allowed to grow long, “but do not think for a moment that even if there were not, I would forget the son I bore. You are my son, Draco, and no matter else what you may do, may be, you will always be loved. A mother’s love can conquer even death, you know.” She kisses his forehead as well, and he staggers out of her embrace, surprised by the outpouring of emotion. Now is not, Narcissa supposes, the best time to mention that the Sorting Hat considered Hufflepuff for her. “Good night, little dragon,” Narcissa tells him instead, and Draco’s eyes widen at the nickname he thought he’d long outgrown, but he nods in acknowledgement before fleeing down the hallway, towards his bedroom.

Draco does not come down to breakfast, the next morning, but Narcissa and Harry have a meaningless conversation about the relative merits of honey and marmalade as toast toppings, until Harry clears his throat. “So, er. About what you said last night. It’s really all fine?” And the way he phrases the question, the glint of determination in his eyes, speaks volumes. If it isn’t all fine, he seems to be saying, he will _make_ it so, even if he must do it alone.

“It really is, Harry,” Narcissa promises. “Why, take Draco, for example,” and she hopes one day, when they look back on this memory in a Pensieve, Harry will appreciate the subtlety of that double entendre. “Take” Draco, indeed.

“Draco?” Harry repeats, stunned and _interested_. “I… Really? But he was engaged, I thought?”

“Betrothed,” she corrects, noting that wizarding courtships are yet another subject Harry lacks proper knowledge of. “But why did you think that betrothal was broken, and with so little scandal?” Narcissa pauses, letting the information sink in. “It is because in the wizarding world, it is far more acceptable. Why, it’s said that Gryffindor himself had a male companion who never left his side and shared his bed.” Harry gapes at that, and she chides him gently. “If you don’t close your mouth, Harry, you’ll catch a snitch with it.”

“I did once, you know,” he tells her, and she remembers reading something like that in a letter from Draco. “My first ever Quidditch match. I came _this_ close to swallowing it. Dumbledore left me that snitch in his will, too.” They share a moment of somber silence, which is interrupted by the appearance of Draco’s Patronus. Rather, Narcissa assumes it must be Draco’s, though the form has changed since she last saw it, and her assumption proves correct when the Patronus begins to speak.

“Mother, please tell me that _wonderful_ Potter, with his scar, and his thrice-cursed _broomstick_ has departed, so that I may come down and finally eat breakfast,” his voice drawls, and Narcissa can all but hear the eye-rolling behind the sarcasm.

“Well,” Harry quips, smiling broadly. “Let it never be said that I am one to overstay my welcome.” He thanks her profusely, for everything, and promises to come by for brunch on Sunday, as always.

“My home is always open to you, Harry, dear,” Narcissa calls after his departing figure.

“Mine isn’t,” Draco says sourly, as he walks into the dining room. The words are just barely loud enough for Harry to overhear, but he does, and laughs the entire way to the fireplace. Draco scowls. Narcissa hides her pleased smile by taking a sip of tea.

\-----

Several days later, Harry arrives before breakfast, clutching what must be an advance copy of the _Prophet_. “I wanted you to know before the paper actually hits the press,” he tells Narcissa, handing her the newspaper. She sets it down on the table without a glance, and looks at Harry, wordlessly asking him for an explanation. “Ginny and I broke up,” Harry admits, nervously running a hand through his hair. “She was… You both were right. I’m not, I don’t like… You know. And I thought you should know, because, well, because you’re important, and I told Ron and Hermione and Mrs. Weasley before everyone else, and I thought you should know too.” He is babbling, clearly nervous, and she cuts him off before he continues to embarrass himself.

“Thank you, Harry,” Narcissa says, touched by his words and his concern. She could get used to this sort of Gryffindor honesty, she thinks. It would be a welcome change from all the secrecy and unsaid sentiments she was raised with. “That means a lot, to me.” He ducks his head, flushing, and declines her offer to stay for breakfast. “Harry came over and brought an advance copy of the _Prophet_ , Draco, dear,” she tells her son when he stares confusedly at the paper resting where his plate ought to be. Narcissa shakes her head fondly; Draco has never been one for mornings.

He picks up the paper strictly out of reflex, eyes automatically scanning the front page, before his eyes widen and he turns as pale as a sheet, dropping the _Prophet_. Draco tears out of the dining room, and Narcissa isn’t sure about his destination until she hears the sudden roar of flames in the fireplace, and Draco’s roar of, “Blaise!”

Confused, Narcissa picks up the paper and looks for the offending headline. “Potter and Weasley Split; Claim Irreconcilable Differences.” Well, that’s one way of putting it, she supposes, but not enough to justify Draco’s reaction. She keeps reading, and then she thinks she finds what set Draco off so badly. “Blaise Zabini Playing With Fire!” It’s a gossip article, written by someone clearly wishing to take up Skeeter’s mantle, but the accompanying photographs clearly show Ginny out to dinner with Blaise. Narcissa hopes Blaise has the presence of mind not to be at home to receive Draco’s fire-call.

\-----

After the brief disruption caused by the news breaking, life continues on in what has, by now, become the usual manner. Narcissa and Harry write to each other when they cannot visit, and Harry seems to spend even more time at the Manor these days. “Grimmauld Place is lonely,” he admits to her, one night, as they drink their tea in her favourite sitting room. It was a gift from her late father-in-law, Abraxas Malfoy, and the dark blue ceiling is enchanted with silver constellations, just like the sitting room in Grimmauld Place. “There’s too much empty space, even when Teddy’s there, to be honest.”

His relationship with his godson is the only thing, it seems, that Harry takes as seriously as their friendship. He’d given up his chance at becoming an Auror when he’d realised the risks involved might tear him away from his godson. “Besides,” Harry had confided in her, after that interview, “I’m too used to acting outside of the law all of these years. Being an Auror wouldn’t suit me.” She’s not entirely sure about what exactly Harry does with his time, but it seems to involve Quidditch, and frequent Floo calls and trips to Beauxbatons and Durmstrang. Whatever it is, Narcissa is glad he’s at least doing something, even though he’s wealthy enough not to.

“I don’t have any simple solutions to your problem, unfortunately, Harry,” Narcissa tells him finally, diverting her thoughts away from his godson and occupation and back to the concern he’s just presented to her. “Have you considered moving into a smaller space, for the time being? Or, perhaps,” and she just knows Draco will be absolutely displeased with this, but Narcissa continues on all the same, “Perhaps you would like to move into the Manor? We certainly aren’t lacking for space, and you know, Harry, that I think of you as a second son.”

He flushes bright red, makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like her son’s name and shakes his head. “No, I, I don’t, er, that’s not, I think, no,” Harry stammers, takes a deep breath and tries again. “Thank you for the offer, really, but I don’t think that would be the best idea. I mean… How would Draco feel, right?” She shouldn’t be so pleased that Harry has taken the time to consider how her son might react, but his words fill her with pride nonetheless. Clearly, she has chosen a worthy match for her son.

And she has been lost in thought a moment too long, now, because Harry is speaking again, though he doesn’t seem to have noticed her inattention. “....Did some research on it with Hermione, since, you know, traditions are important,” he is saying, the flush still prominent on his cheeks, and now Harry straightens his back in his seat, and she can see the strength that he must have needed to face Voldemort, and not the young man she has come to know. “Narcissa… No, Lady Black-Malfoy... I have come to you, as honour demands, to ask for your permission to court…” Harry’s voice falters, Gryffindor courage failing him, and outside the room’s closed doors, Narcissa thinks she hears a choked gasp, and then the muffled sound of slippered feet moving swiftly away. “Permission to court your son, Draco,” Harry concludes finally, avoiding her gaze, clearly expecting a sharp rebuttal.

“Oh, Harry…” She sighs, with an indulgent smile, but there are certain things which tradition demands, so she goes on. “My permission you have, and my blessing also. Go with honour, and with love,” she concludes, as the custom requires, and inclines her head graciously as Harry looks up, amazed. “But Harry, it will not be easy for you,” she warns, because she knows both of her boys, and wishes Harry every advantage she can give.

“Neither was killing Voldemort,” he retorts, grinning wildly, and she wonders if perhaps young Teddy Lupin is not the only one with werewolf blood in him after all. She has to concede the point to him, though, she admits. Harry has never been one to shy away from danger and difficulty. He takes his leave soon after, and she heads up to bed.

In the morning, she finds Draco has beaten her to the dining room for breakfast, as he is nursing a whiskey, and the scent surrounding him suggests it is not his first. “I’m not calling him ‘father’,” Draco slurs, before she can even greet him, and the words startle laughter out of her. She cannot recall the last time she has laughed like this, so hard that she has to excuse herself, and her stomach begins to ache. 

“Oh, Draco,” she manages to say, though he is not within earshot, “if only you knew...”


End file.
